


Stop That Train (I Wanna Get In)

by dudewhereismypie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (he'll be okay though), Alternate Universe - No Monsters, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Author is also sleep deprived, Badass Cas (it rhymes and it's true I don't make the rules), Chubby Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Nerd Dean, The Author Regrets Nothing, This got out of hand - Freeform, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudewhereismypie/pseuds/dudewhereismypie
Summary: Dean loves his job and he’s hella good at it. It’s a fucking dream, really. Batman has nothing on him. It doesn't matter he's not a field agent, he’s doing what he’s good at, and he’s much more help this way.
Doesn’t make it any easier when things go to shit and he’s not with Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my _thank fuck the semester is over_ celebration. It was not supposed to be what it is, but all god's children and all that. It's almost finished and I'll be posting the second part soon. I hope you guys like it!  
>  Also, I don't have a beta so if there are any gross mistakes, let me know. And, well, I know the grand total of -3 things about real secret service, so indulge me a little. <3

 

 

 

Okay.

This looks bad.

  
  


 

 

The thing is, Dean fucking loves his job. He helps saving people and stopping bad guys, he has a nice paycheck and can eat how many burgers he wants and, if he really sets his mind to, eat pie after. His best friends work with him and he gets to play Wii in between playing with computers and systems and saving the world. He also gets to design cool things and first handedly test them-- he can blow things up and call it his job. It’s a fucking dream. Batman has nothing on him.

So, yes, Dean loves his job and he’s hella good at it.

Well, he sometimes wishes he was in the field, getting hands down and dirty on the missions, but he thinks everyone, at least once, wishes that too. There’s a glamour about being a field agent-- the front man, all strength and coiled danger merged in precision and geniality. It’s seductive and it’s easy to fall into the mistake of romanticizing it, with a tint of a James Bond sepia and british accents.

That’s not precisely why Dean wishes he was a field agent-- it’s part of it, because if you can’t admit how cool that is, you’re wrong, sorry. But he’s way too close to be fooled by the romantic ideas of what the job entails. He’s never been the handler, never been in the ear of the agents, responsible for making sure things go without a hitch and everyone ends home safe, but he’s part of the handler’s team, the team with noses glued to liquid crystal screens, eyes dry from not blinking too much, and fingers flying over keys.

He’s not the voice in their head, not the one that makes the decisions, but he’s part of the eyes and the ears and the brains that give the handler all information there is so the best course of action can be taken. So yeah, one could say he’s seen and heard enough that the ship of romantic ideas sailed so long and far away the krakens probably ate it and it's now poop on the ocean’s bottom.

No, the reason Dean wants to be a field agent is because that’s where his brother is.

Dean likes having his brother back when he’s on a mission, yeah, he likes thinking he’s making sure Sammy has every support there is to do his job as safe as possible, but nothing beats being beside him, closer, right at arm’s reach.

He used to have nightmares about that, right after Sam started, waking up breathless and in the verge of screaming because he just watched Sammy get shot, get stabbed, get blown up, get kidnapped and burnt-- get fucking poisoned by a pen (happened once), and he was just too far away to make sure his body was between Sam and the imminent danger.

He’d never tell that to Sam, obviously. First, because he’d look at Dean with the Puppy Eyes Of Doom and say “Dean” softly, in that quiet way that made Dean want to pull his hair out of his scalp with eyebrow tweezers. Then he’d want to talk about it, about feelings and _ugh_. No.

Second, because Sam would also be all moose indignation and puff out his gorilla-sized chest and get all “I can take care of myself, Dean”, like Dean hadn’t been taking care of him since he was twelve and watched him grow to a strong and solid centered self. He wouldn’t understand that Dean’s worry has nothing to do with Sam’s competence, but all with Dean’s own lack of.

And third, because it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Sam wouldn’t back out from this for the same reasons Dean wouldn’t. And it didn’t matter how much Dean wanted to be in the field and protect his brother, he’d be fucking _crap_ at it. He can a fire a gun all right, depending on its caliber, but he’s the worst at all the rest-- fighting and running and being shot at and thinking quick with a knife pressed on his throat-- that kind of thing. And even if by some miracle he ended up passing the bar to be authorized as a field agent, he’d be so worried about keeping an eye on Sam he’d ruin everything.

So, yeah, no. He’s doing what he’s good at, and he’s much more help this way.

Doesn’t make it any easier when things go to shit and he’s not with Sam.

They’ve lost visual and two of three agents are out of the map. The last thing they got Sam had checked in and Blake and Walker were backing him up. Then the second after they’re blind and Sam and Walker’s two dots disappeared from the screen. There was no answer from the comms, and they can’t know if the things are working and they’re just not answering or not.

There’s a whip crack tension and absolute silence in the CO's room, pierced only with the clanks of keyboards while he and Charlie access the street cameras trying to find a sign of anything. Dean’s blood is loud on his ears and he refuses to be overtaken by panic. It’s not the first time things go south and he knows if they keep their cool and head in the game they can change things.

“Got something,” Charlie says, and Milton is there, peering over her shoulder, while Dean keeps looking in case it’s nothing.

“No, it’s-- _Fuck_ ,” Milton grunts and he’s watching something on the screen with murderous intent. Dean itches to know what it is, if it’s bad, if Sam’s okay, but he keeps quiet and keeps working. Michael may be proud at best and a dick sometimes, but he’s a good handler, and Dean trusts him to do his job right.

While he waits the algorithm to work on the cameras of a hotel nearby the site, he checks Blake’s dot, still blinking in the map, unmoving. Dean’s guess is that she’s unconscious and he really hopes she’s not dead, but Milton already sent a team to extract her and now it’s a matter of time to know.  

The most frustrating part is that it was supposed to be a milk run. Easy break and enter, typical use-disguise-to-get-inside-the-bad-guy’s-lair, distract the bad guy and his minions, and copy the files in the bad guy’s pc. Debrief had said the guy’s office was behind three thick security walls, and they’d overcame it in five minutes flat, Sam had just reported in comms he was in and--

Oh, shit.

The comms.

Dean’s brain tunnels out and he’s just aware of his quick breathing, the heat/shivers of his anxiety and the fine tremble on his fingers doing nothing to impair his efficiency. Fuck, how had he not thought about that before?

If the coms are working, if they’re not physically damaged and attached to the agent’s body, there should be a way of remotely sending a signal and getting feedback from it, and if he _borrowed_ a satellite for a just moment he’d have their location. Now usually all communication is encrypted and carried in a frequency that hides it from most things. He has just to teach the satellite to recognize the frequency and tweak remotely the comm to send automatic feedback within receiving a signal and--

“What?” Milton asks, voice rising.

Dean tunes in, realizing he’d lost some of the conversation. He pushes his glasses up his nose, annoyed at how it keeps sliding down now he’s cold and hot and nervous sweating. He tries to pay attention, because Fitzgerald is saying in a voice that carries an apology underneath, “We got a team with Crowley on the wait, and--”

“No.” Milton cuts, sharply.

“But--”

“I don’t care what Singer says, I’m not sending that idiot to a situation that’s delicate enough.” He dismisses Garth with his hand and then brings it to rub his face. Dean can’t blame him, Crowley is a special brand of chaotic and sending him to a possible hostage situation wouldn't be very wise.

Michael walks a full fuming circle on the floor before Dean finishes changing the settings on the comm’s codes, and he doesn’t have a way of knowing if it worked at all until he gets the second part of the plan down, but he can only do that with Milton’s go.

“Sir,” Dean says, swallowing down his nerves. Michael stops walking and levels up Dean with his usual thousand watt stare, “I may have something.”

Milton walks towards him and sighs softly through his nose, almost as if he’s praying it to be useful. “Give me, Winchester.”

 

 

 

 

 

With Charlie helping, forty minutes later they locate a signal just on Washington’s border, almost Oregon. It’s just one signal and they have no way of knowing if it’s Sam or Walker. Just to make sure Dean sends a new signal a bit later and the feedback comes further down. Again-- and further. Too quick to be at car speed, even if it was a damn sport car.

“They’re flying south.” Michael concludes what they’re all thinking, and when then they proceed to track any unauthorized air traffic, he stares at the map on the screen for a moment, jaw tight.

Dean doesn’t know what Michael plans on doing, if he wants to send a team straight away or wait to know where it’ll lead -- he hopes it’s the first, because he can’t help the anxiety of wanting to know how Sam is sooner, but he knows from experience the second is safer. What he doesn’t expect is Milton to pull out his phone -- personal, not work phone -- and give the pc’s screen a death glare until whomever he’s calling answers.

“Little brother,” Milton greets through the speaker, “I need a favor.” And Dean’s brows go high. He didn’t even know dude’s got a brother, much less a little one that’d be of any help for them.

  
  


 

 

Little brother Dean’s ass.  

The team was  momentarily parted in two: while Charlie and Dean go with Michael, armed with their data, the rest of them stays at the CO’s room, monitoring things.

Then Castiel Milton appears on the big screen at the debrief room, and he’s all but little.

He fills his dark blue suit thoroughly, not like a bodybuilder, but like a freaking GQ model, and if it wasn’t for the disheveled nature of his hair, the dark bags under his eyes or the shadows of his messy stubble, Dean bets he’d be on the cover. Honestly talking, at first glance the guy looks like an accountant who’s made a lot of money and there’s no hint of militarily in him, much less secret service. But who’s Dean to judge, really, with his soft body and penchant for flannels.

Castiel acknowledges Michael’s team with politeness and a small smile, but doesn’t stray his focus from the problem at hand. All in all, he looks absolutely nothing like Michael, that oozes command and power.  He’s focused and sharp, but postured in a serene way that reminds Dean of a bird of prey, and it’s different-- a calmness that isn’t necessary quietness but a calm nonetheless.

He really doesn’t fit Michael’s mold, for sure. His eyes a bright and clear blue, strong cut jaw and nose straight, but not rigid. It’s curious because for all hard lines, he looks gentle, maleable. He’s handsome in a way that’s not obvious, but once you notice you can’t really unsee. It’s kind of weird, like when Dean has to trade old glasses for new ones and the world seems changed for a while before you get used to it.

“Cars chases are a bad idea,” Castiel says icily, after Michel brings him to speed, “Air vehicles chases are thoroughly stupid.”

Michael rolls his eyes skyward, like his brother is a particular brand of obtuse, but when he looks back at the screen he has the same ice in his tone and Dean understands how they’re related. “At the speed they’re going it’s a matter of hours before they cross Oregon. If they reach the ports in California the whole ops will go to shit and _like hell I’m letting that happen_.” He says, definitive. “I’m not asking for a chase, I’m asking you to trap them.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, and he doesn't say anything for a moment. Dean is trying not to poke at the thought it’s his brother’s life they’re arguing there, but it’s hard to ignore the ugly twist in his gut. Oh, after years he’s perfectly capable of hiding it and acting professionally despite of it, but he won’t ever get used to this special kind of sickness.

“You don’t even know if they’re _trying_ to get to the ports, that’s what you’re counting on. I could do something in that case, but if they’re not coming in my direction, you’re fucked.” Castiel curses with the same controlled tone of his speech, and it takes Dean a second to register the word. “But yes. I’ll do it.”

Michael’s shoulder sag a little, and he’s breathing out in something Dean knows from previous experience it’s relief. He’s tempted to feel relieved too, because if Milton trusts so much in his brother’s help, Dean thinks he ought too. It doesn't make it any easier to bear the fact the whole plan is a big _if_ , though. Castiel is right, they can deduce all they want-- they’ll never know for sure where they’re heading to before it’s too late.

  
  
  


 

 

Blake is in surgery. The evac team found her unconscious and bleeding out from a gut shot, just under the line of her kevlar. The extraction was messy, the fight was ugly and Dean’s only heard about it in passing, thanks, because he's sick enough without knowing details. The data the team went to retrieve it’s nowhere to be found.

Dean is deeply grateful she’s not dead; she's funny and smart and Dean doesn't know her very well but he likes her. Charlie agrees when he says so, but she squeezes his shoulder in a way he knows it’s meant to be comforting and he tries to ignore the lump in his throat.

They’re back at the CO’s room and things are tenser. As soon as they get in, Michael says something to Charlie and she’s quick to get back to her computer. Then he’s turning to Dean and directs him to the furthest part of the big table with the operating machines, some candy wrapers and empty cups of coffee. He hands him an ear piece and demands Dean’s attention with just his eyes.

“Good?” he asks, and Dean knows what he’s talking about, and the answer won’t ever be not yes because he’d rather be here no matter what state he’s in. So he nods sharply and Milton goes on, “I want you to stand by Castiel. He has his team but I trust mine more. Give him all back up he needs.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean answers, and MIchael turns away. Dean sits, prepares his work station  and fits the ear piece with practised ease. It comes alive with a tiny _beep_ and he takes a deep breath before talking, making sure he sounds less like the anxious mess he is. “Mr. Milton this is Dean Winchester. I’ll be your contact here and I’m at your disposal for any help you need.”

“Hello,” the answer comes few moments later, “Yes.” Castiel sounds distracted and a little out of breath but if he’s surprised to hear Dean he doesn’t show. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” He says after a minute stretched with nothing that Dean didn’t know how to fill, “I’ll be in touch.” and then there’s silence again. His voice sounded much more deep and gravel just inside Dean’s ear and it left behind something weird and hot sitting heavily at Dean’s gut.

Seems like he’s now a glorified bench guy.

That’s the part he hates the most: the waiting. His body buzzes, his mind is half scrambled, and there’s a tension in his muscles as if he’s forever stuck in the moment he misses the last step of a stair, those seconds you think you’re going into a freefall before you find the floor.

Dean doesn’t really understand why castiel is the one that can help them when there are a bunch of others HQs down at California but he’s not going to argue. That’s the only plan they have and until a better one comes, they have to stick with it.

  
  


 

 

Fifty-five minutes later Dean bit off all nails he had, drank five cups of coffee, helped Charlie when she needed an extra hand for looking inside the pc the evac team brought, pulled off a chunk of skin of his lower lip, and he can’t stop shaking his right leg under the table. There’s no signal of Castiel.

At the fifty-six mark he almost jumps out of his skin when Castiel’s voice comes directly inside his ear; “I got Winchester,” he says, and Dean doesn't even care how the guy managed that, he just feels the sudden urge to kiss him, “Description matches. He was the only one we found in the jet but he wasn’t piloting. He’s unconscious, already sent to medical.” He reports, and Dean takes a second to make sure his voice is firm.

“Thank you, I’ll pass on to Milton.” He swallows, looks at Michael’s direction where he’s talking something with Alex and decides that if he reports five seconds later it won’t make much of a difference. So he asks, “Is it bad?” and hopes Castiel will answer, that he won’t demand to talk with Michael right away.

“I can’t say if it was. It was… messy,” and it’s not Dean’s impression he hesitated at that, “I didn’t linger, just make sure he was safe to be moved to medical.”

Dean pulls a deep breath. “Okay, thank you. I’ll put Milton on the line.” Dean gets up on unsteady legs to get to Michael, but Castiel is talking again and he stops.

“Is he your brother?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“I’ll talk to Michael, see that you come here to see him.”

Dean doesn’t know this dude for jack, but he feels such a deep swell of gratitude it’s quite hard to breath right for a moment. There’s nothing else Dean wants more than to fly to California and check on his brother but he knows he can’t just leave everything behind now. Michael might need him here and he knows it won’t look too good if he asks just to flee now, because they still have to find Walker and the files and there’s a lot of work to do.

He still want to go, though, and he appreciates Castiel would vouch for him in that matter.

“Thanks,” he exhales the word, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel answers, simply, like he just passed Dean the ketchup or something, and Dean feels the urge to laugh, but he crosses it at hysteria and goes all the way to Milton, giving him the ear piece and the report.

  
  


 

 

An hour later Dean is strapped in a flight to Los Angeles and for the first time the plane travel is not the reason why he feels like throwing up. He still has the hollow in his chest that stopped growing only while Charlie held him in a tight hug when he left the HQ, and he just wishes there was a way to teleport right next to Sam, but it takes three hours for the plane to land and he still has some way to go.

He brought nothing but the backpack he had with him and the clothes on his body, so once he's at the airport he maneuvers through the sea of people directly to the exit, where he hauls the first cab he sees.

The ride is silent, oppressively so, and the driver shuts off after a third attempt at small talk goes to deaf ears. He’d usually try to match the sympathy the guy shows him, but the words are clogged in his throat and he can’t seem to manage past the basic of spurting out the address. He keeps checking his phone, bubbling in anxiety, and there’s nothing in it to look at but the time, so he knows that exactly twenty-eight minutes later the taxi stops at the front of a tall shiny building.

Dean thanks the guy, leaves him a good tip to apologize for his rudeness, and crosses the space to the glass doors in a half jog. He has to show his ID, badge, answer questions and sign on some dotted lines. He’s annoyed, thinking about making remarks of how about the next question will be about the color of his underwear, but he doesn't. The security guys are just doing their job, Dean knows. But, damn, couldn’t things just go faster?

After all the circus to make sure he’s him and not an evil drone or something, they put him to wait, sat on a couch on the lounge, and it’s all starting to make a irreparable graze on his very, very thin patience. He’s about to get up and demand answers when a woman appears by his side. She has sharp eyes, wavy hair gently falling on her shoulders, and stands on a suit and heels like she was born with them.

“Masters,” She says-- more announces, really, but doesn’t offer a hand to shake, "You're Dean Winchester?"

“Yes, hi.” He gets up, sliding the backpack over his shoulder again. “Can I see Sam, now?”

“Mr. Winchester, as soon as your brother was stabilized he was transferred to St. Vincent.” She says and Dean gapes at her, mouth opening and closing like a dumb fish.

“He’s not _here_?” He asks, and fuck, he’s suddenly so mad he sees red, “Why didn't you _said so_ before, I--”

“You were inside a plane,” Masters cuts him, eyebrow up, completely unfazed,  “And I’m telling you now.”  

“This is fucking-- _fuck-_ -” Dean takes a deep breath and fights the urge to scream. He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, and he knows it's rude as hell but he's so angry he doesn't care, he just turns around and stalks out of the building as quick as he can. There’s no much use for it since the cab he came in is long gone and there’s no others passing by, since it's almost three in the fucking morning.

He streams curses while pulling out his phone and he still feels the anger blurring his senses, making his fingers unsteady while he fumbles with the app that should call a car for him.

“Mr. Winchester!” He hears a deep voice and turns around to watch a man coming out of the building towards him. The closer he comes, the more familiar he gets, and when he stops in front of Dean, Dean knows it’s Castiel. 

“Sorry, I--” Dean sighs and adjusts his glasses. He gestures the general direction of the empty street and honestly he doesn’t even knows why he’s apologizing-- he sure feels like it should be the other way around but he can’t bring himself to be rude at Castiel so gratuitously. “I have to go.”

Castiel nods, as if he understands it. “Can I offer you a ride?” he asks, and Dean frowns in confusion. “It’ll be easier and faster. Once you get in the hospital you won’t have to pass through all the security checks again.” he clarifies and Dean is noding even before he finishes speaking.

“Yes, please,” And Castiel is already saying something in his ear piece that makes a car roll smoothly and park in front of them moments later. Dean would be impressed if he wasn’t so nervous to get at the hospital. “Thanks.” He says, and when he’s turning to leave, Castiel stops him with a hand on his elbow.

“If you need anything,” He says, and offers Dean a card, light grey with opaque letters. There’s just Castiel’s name and number, he notices, and he tries to offer a smile, but he thinks it comes more as a weird attempt to stop a sneeze. So he gives up before he can embarrass himself further and nods his thanks, getting inside the waiting vehicle.

The driver seems to know where they’re going because he strolls through the streets right away, without giving Dean a glance and ignoring Dean's greeting. It’s utterly impolite but he doesn’t object if it’s going to make things roll faster.

Dean sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to find his footing with the turmoil inside him. When he opens it, he stares at Castiel’s card, lying on his palm, the play of shadows and buttery lights of the streets changing its colors in flashes. It’s very kind of him to help Dean like that, going out of his way to make sure he’d be with Sam now, and he’ll have to remember to give him his proper thanks later. Maybe a fruit basket or something.

  
  
  


 

The driver talks to a nurse in the reception desk and then she tells him Sam’s been out of surgery for a little more than an hour but still should be asleep for at least until tomorrow. He’s out of danger, thank god, but he’s going to have a long recovery process until he’s at his physical peak again. The list of injuries makes Dean’s stomach roll in cold sickness, but he swallows it down and follows the nurse, Mrs. Rogers, through the white corridors.

As promised Dean is led directly to Sam. The driver is nowhere to be seen when they reach his brother’s room and Dean frowns a little, because he never even saw the guy leaving their side. Talk about weird.

Dean notices, as soon as they stop at Sam’s door, two guys in the corridor, just looming nearby, and they scream muscled security even if they’re wearing normal clothes. It leaves Dean uneasy, a pit opening on his stomach. If there’s guys guarding the door they have some reason to think this isn’t over and someone is after Sam. On the other side,  maybe it’s just a precaution and Dean is giving himself an ulcer for nothing. It’s hard to believe that option, though.

Dean forces those thoughts aside and thanks Mrs. Rogers before taking a deep breath and opening the room.

It always makes him scared to see Sam hooked up in machines, even if it isn’t the first time that’s happened. At least this time it’s just the oxygen cannula in his nostrils, the vein access and the vital signs monitors. Sam has bruises on his face, stitches on his brow, and there’s bandages peeking out from his clothes, on his shoulder, where Dean knows there’s bullet wound. He also knows about the cracked ribs and the bruised knee, hidden under the covers, and it’s best that he can’t really see them. All in all, nothing seems absurdly out of place or permanently broken. Dean saw him in worse shape, and that’s shitty thing to see a bright side in, but it’s what he has.

Dean sits in the lone chair beside the bed and takes Sam’s hand. It’s a little cold so he tucks the sheets to cover better Sam’s moose-sized body, and takes his hand again.

“You’re a fucker, you know that?” Dean says, swallowing the lump on his throat. His free hand brushes away the mess of chestnut hair in Sam’s forehead and he discovers a patch they shaved right above Sam’s ear, where there’s a curative. Dean tries to sniff discreetly, even if there’s no one else in the room to see him cry. “You owe me, like, fifty forehead flicks or something.”   

  


 

 

It’s almost 5AM and the weak rays of a new day shine through the thin curtains. Dean has yet to sleep. It’s not as if it’s really possible to do so in a chair that frankly doesn’t fit his butt comfortably but he wouldn’t want to even if it was, not when he needs to be aware the moment Sam awakes. Rationally he knows Sam’s just sleeping, he can see the machines attesting to that, but he’ll be much more relieved when he sees his brother alert.

At some point his butt falls asleep and Dean groans, stretching on the chair. He gets up, with half mind to plug his phone on the charger, but doesn’t find a free outlet in the room. He’ll be bored as hell in no time, but it’s kinda his fault.  He played so much candy crush (shut up Charlie, it’s a classic) the battery’s gone to eight percent.

Sighing, he puts his phone back on his pocket and walks in circles around the room, just to warm up a bit. He shakes his left leg and grimaces when the pins and needles sensation runs over his muscles. Then he hears the tell tale sound of a punch and freezes.

Though he can’t say what’s being hit, there’s no mistake of it-- there’s hitting involved. Dean walks quietly to the door and glues his ear on the wood and yeah, there’s definitely a fight going on the outside.

“Shit.” Dean breathes and locks the door as silent as possible. Then he gets the chair and puts it against the knob, knowing it’ll delay but won’t stop whomever it is for long. He hopes it’s all a brawl unrelated to Sam, but he knows it’s probably not, with what the security outside and tonight’s shit show.  “Fuck, shit.” He curses softly, but with a lot of feeling, not wanting to make too much noise. He looks around and there’s just the door to the bathroom and Sam’s bed has wheels but he doesn’t think it fits inside.

He goes to grab his phone and his hand brushes Castiel’s card and he doesn’t think twice before ringing the number printed.

“Milton.” Castiel’s voice says and Dean doesn't stop the exhale of relief the guy answered a strange number calling.

“It’s Dean. Winchester.” He whispers, walking away from the door for good measure. The phone is beeping, complaining about the low battery and, fuck, Dean is going to die because of candy crush. He silently hates himself.  “There’s someone outside. More than one, I don’t know. I think--” And he cuts himself when a loud bang rattles the door, as if a body was thrown against the wood. “Shit, they’re--”

“I’ve just been informed 911 was contacted by the hospital staff,” Castiel says, voice controled but alert, and Dean can hear the murmur of other voices underneath his stronger one, “That should delay things but I already sent--”

“Oh _shit,_ ” Dean curses, when the door rattles again.

“Dean?”  

“They’re trying to get in.” He says, and fits the phone on his shoulder to grab the bedside lamp. He plasters his back against the wall just beside the door and waits because fuck this shit, Dean knows he’s crap at fighting but he won’t let anyone touch his brother. He hears sirens somewhere outside and Castiel is talking but he can’t hear a thing above the rush of blood in his ears and then it doesn't matter anyway because his phone dies with a decisive final beep and okay.

Okay.

This looks fucking bad.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Dean must have blacked out or something because next thing he knows he’s sitting in the sad chair that hates his butt, the lamp is crashed on the floor and Castiel is there, nearby and surreptitiously glancing at Dean with worry sunken between his brows. He’s with five more agents, including Masters, and they’re talking between them in hushed tones. Dean can’t understand a thing. He feels sick and cold, throat closing.

He forces down saliva and tries to breathe.

“You with me, buddy?” Someone asks, and Dean turns to see a guy wearing scrubs crouched at the chair’s side. Dean doesn't think he can talk just yet, so he nods once and takes the plastic cup the nurse presses into his hand. Even if he's still filled with nausea, and trembling, his body unstable like his muscles turned into jelly, he drinks the water in large gulps. It’s fresh and cold and it’s such a relief he feels his stomach settling a bit and his shoulders releasing some of the tension. At least he doesn't think he'll throw up right away now. “Good.” the guy says, and offers a kind smile.

“What happened?” Dean asks, ignoring how he cracks at the end of his question, taking another sip to smooth it out.

“You don’t remember?” The nurse shifts his face in a concerned expression and Dean freezes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, and has to push a deep breath down his core to fight the urge to freak out, because no, he doesn’t. “Are you dizzy? Vision blurred?” The guy asks, and Dean shakes his head slowly.

“Nevermind,” he says, gulping down around the knot on his throat, giving back the cup before he makes a mess with his quivering hand. “Just got confused for a bit. Thanks.” He knows something must show in his face but he looks away and the nurse doesn’t call him on his lie. Dean doesn’t glance back when the guy gets up and goes away. It's better if he doesn't ask.

He scrubs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. John’s voice comes in whispers inside his head, even if the man himself liked to shout loud and clear, telling him things he took too long to live with, too long to get over. Some parts of him accepted them, though, and aside from the venom they resonate like a truth. That’s just one of the reasons Dean is not even remotely fit to field work.

Taking another deep breath, he looks around. Just outside the room he sees two cops taking notes from a nurse he recognizes as Mrs. Rogers with _serious business_ faces. His gaze shifts to the opened door and he feels his heart pumping faster when he sees the wood has been sunk in the middle, almost making a hole, and with a snap he turns to face the bed where Sam-- Sam is awake. The nurse once at Dean’s side is now checking on him, and Dean watches for a second, chest tied and a knot caught in his throat. He has to clear it up and swallow a couple of times until he can inhlae without problems.

“Sam,” he rasps, and his brother still looks banged up and tired but he’s alive and awake and he smiles at Dean. Dean all but scrambles off the chair and his knees are weak  and he's tight and unsteady in his own skin, but he’s careful not to hurt Sam even more when he hugs him. “How- how’re you feeling?” he asks, words stumbling, and steps back, not wanting to crowd him.

“I’m ok,” Sam says, voice rough and tired, blinking slow.

“Yeah?” Dean swallows, “You good?” he asks, just to make sure.

“I feel like I want to sleep until next year, but sure, yeah.” Sam grumbles and Dean laughs a bit, a little hollow, and pretends to adjust Sam’s sheets around his bandaged torso so he can hide the how his eyes are stinging.

“Well, I feel like that every day, so nothing to brag about.”

“Jerk.” Sam complains in a grunt, but he’s smiling and Dean wants to hug him again, bring him home and make him his favorite soup or something, but Castiel steps closer, coming to to his side and Dean is distracted from that line of thought.

Dean can’t say he knows what really went down, but he knows for a fact that if it wasn’t for Castiel Sam’d probably be dead right now and, yeah, Dean can’t say he’s at his most sane point because he just straight up hugs the guy. Not a polite hug, the hug you give to that aunt you can barely stand because your mom told you to behave at the family reunion. No, it’s a full on hug-- he hooks his chin over Castiel’s shoulder, grabs him and truly squeezes the guy, until he hears Sam rasping snort and he has the decency to feel ashamed.

“Sorry,” Dean says, letting the him go, and Castiel looks absolutely startled, “Just, I, thanks. Thanks, man.” He fumbles and clears his throat. Castiel must see how embarrassed Dean is and must take pity on him, and he's relaxing and smiling a little. It changes his whole face and makes something funny happen on Dean’s belly.

“No need to be sorry,” Castiel answers, his voice gentle as always, “You’re welcome.”

“Where’s the-- the people that were-- you know,” he winces, embarrassed at how inarticulate he is. The words are scrambled inside his mouth, his tongue heavy and clumsy. He feels like he can’t make a straight thought, everything mingling and blurring inside his head.

“The two of them are in custody, soon to be interrogated.”

“Can you tell me- what’s going on? I mean, why-- why,” and he doesn’t know how to resume it, so he gestures to the general mess around them and he thinks Castiel gets the idea because he grimaces for a moment and nods.

“Yes, we should talk about that. But not here.” Castiel smoothens the front of his suit with a hand, and wow Dean feels another wave of self-consciousness for rumpling out the guy, but he swallows the urge to apologize again because it’d be only more embarrassing. It’s still the same suit Dean saw on him before, and it gives him the suspicion that Castiel hasn’t stop working since yesterday. “I already made the arrangements to transfer Sam, and you’re coming too. We have to talk with Michael and put dots on some i’s.” He declares, and Dean can only nod.

 

  
  


 

It’s not surprising to see his phone completely dead, but it is a little weird to have Castiel hand it back to him, when he doesn’t know how he got it in the first place. Dean doesn’t voice his question, though, in case Castiel decides to ask the same thing the nurse did, and it leaves him with an anxious pit inside. And it feels bad, yeah, but It doesn’t compare to the sensation of having this chunk of time just-- just _lacking._ He concentrates and tries to remember, but it’s just not there, and it scares him, the extension of his uselessness, that he’s so defective and weak at the point of just erasing hard stuff like that. He hates to think he proved John right, but in the end that’s just what he did.

He’s a fucking mess.

But it’s not the time to dust off those skeletons and bring them to light, not now. He has to push it down because there’s still work to do and he may be useless at the real stuff but he has some skills, he can be of help at some point.  So he puts it in a box and stashes it away.

  
  


 

 

They left the hospital and now Sam is resting in a room at the HQ’s medical wing. Dean tucked Sam in bed himself, and he has to confess he’d been a little wary about leaving him there. He knows it’s safer, sure, and he understands they had to transfer Sam to a hospital for surgery and, aside that, their medical facility is good, but still. Sam is supposed to be at the hospital, recovering, not being jostled around palces before he’s even been awake for two hours.

But Sam needs a safe place to rest, so Dean doesn’t protest. And Dean needs to work since Castiel appears to be waiting for him, according to a text he receives. Around ten, a guy Dean never seen in his life comes to get him, introduces himself as Castiel's assistant, and guides him inside the building's bowels. Dean doesn't try to make small talk, because Balthazar is all serious and a bit cranky while he walks Dean through door and corridors, until they reach an office he assumes it’s Castiel’s.

When Dean opens the door there’s silence.  Michael’s face is already on the monitor, Castiel behind his desk, and both set of gazes fall directly at him.  

“Um. Hi,” Dean says, and manages a little wave, feeling utterly awkward at the attention. Castiel smiles and gestures to a chair, but Michael doesn’t react besides an arching eyebrow.

“Winchester. We were discussing about the files.”

“You found them?” He asks, sitting, and wow, that’s a much better chair.

“No, and that’s the problem.” Michael has his impatient tone full on. “Debrief said there should be intel about the dealer and when the cargos are delivered, but we found no trace of it in all devices evac brought.”

“So they were erased.” Dean says, not seeing the problem. And then, _oh._ “Or they never existed.”

“We don’t know.” Michael says, and Dean sighs.

“If they never existed... it was a trap?” It sounds a bit off, and Dean is not sure why. It’s definitely not the freakiest thing that happened in his job, but there’s something that doesn’t fit. “It doesn’t explain the kidnapping, why they came after Sam, or-- why they waited to set the trap, instead of doing it right once Sam was in the guy’s office.”

“That’s what I was trying to say to Michael,” Castiel says, and Dean turns his head to look at him. The guy sounds tired, but he’s alert. “My theory is that they somehow believed Sam had the information and wanted it back.”

“What? I mean, I didn’t ask him, but, if he had something, he’d say so.”

Michael sighs, rubbing his forehead, and there’s a pinch of silence Dean doesn't like.

“He was found alone in that jet.” Michael finally says and Dean exhales like he’s been punched.

“He was _unconscious_ and _hurt,_ ” he says, not measuring the indignation in his tone. After everything Sam gave for this job how dare they think he'd ever do shit like that.  “And Castiel said he wasn’t piloting the thing, right?” He turns to the man at his side, and Castiel nods.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “There were traces of fight and Sam was found in the back. Whomever was the pilot, they fled before my team reached the jet.”

“See?” He gestures at Castiel, a hint of desperation in his tone.

“I’m not saying Samuel is under any suspicions.” Michael says sharply. “If he was I’d have an order to detain and interrogate him as we speak. I’m trying to fit the pieces in this goddamn mess, and with Walker still MIA and Blake not conscious, Samuel is the only one left in the scene.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest some more, because like _hell_ he’d let that happen, but Castiel must sense his rising anger because he cuts in, voice calm as always. “I think they lost the information and their first guess was Sam has it. We should use that in our favor.”

“Uh,” Dean frowns, “And how can we use that?”

“Now we know they don’t have it, but they don’t know we don’t have it either,” Castiel says, a little smile on his lips.

“And this buy us time.” Michael finishes, frowning, and Dean feels a little lost and kind of dumb. “Dean,” he says, and there’s a note of _that’s an order_ in his tone, “Ask Samuel what happened. I’m not keen on sending someone to interrogate him right now, but I’ll do it if you don’t. I’d rather have him talk to you, but I need to know what happened asap.”

“Yes, sir.” He answers, because he’d rather do it himself, after Sam is awake and feeling rested, than leave the task to a douchebag Michael might send. Michael just nods, sharply, and ends the conference. When the screen blinks dark Dean exhales, like he’s been locking in his breath and didn’t notice.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, and when Dean turns to look at him, he knows he not imagined the tone of worry in Castiel’s voice. “Are you feeling well?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, slowly, “Yeah, just, you know,” he shrugs and looks down at his hands, picking up at a hangnail in his thumb, “I thought for a second he wanted to blame Sam. Turns out he wants me to spy on Sam so he knows if he should blame him or not.”

“Dean,”

“I mean, it’d look bad.” Dean goes on, pretending he didn’t hear it, “An agent shot, another MIA, a third found bleeding out in another jurisdiction, and a mission that went out of control. And if the handler puts the guy barely a day out of surgery in an interrogation without concrete evidence... Yeah, it’d look bad.” he sighs, shakes his head. “I’m not actually that stupid that I don’t know what he’s trying to do.”

“No one thinks you’re stupid,” Castiel answers, not missing a beat. He sighs and, deflating a little, just stays quiet for a moment. “Michael just hopes you’ll chose the easiest way. He sometimes can be blindsided by his need of finding answers.” He says, shaking his head, and he sounds so much like he’s one of those chinese proverbs that Dean snorts a laugh.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Do you want to have lunch?” Castiel asks, and Dean looks up to his sheepish expression, like he’s not sure if he should be asking what he is. “There’s a place nearby that has a fairly good burger.”   

To be honest Dean feels his stomach tight and sick, like it’s filled with uneasiness and confusion and knotted with fear, and he’s not hungry, not even a little. He still feels lke crap about his fucking brain, about this whole mess, and he just wants to curl up somewhere dark and forget it all. But it’s been a while since he last ate, he doesn’t even remember how long, and Castiel has been nothing but kind to him. Dean doesn’t want to say no either. It’s probably some kind of crime to say no to a good burger anyway.

“Yeah, sure.” Dean nods, and it’s surprising that it doesn’t feel stiff with how much his chest is heavy.

  
  


 

 

Though Castiel has a position superior to Dean’s in the power ladder, he’s technically not Dean’s boss, so he doesn’t feel weird getting lunch with the guy. He thinks things can get a little weird still, but just because they don’t know each other very well and, well, there’s the thing that they’re in some kind of internal crisis or whatever. But it’s not.

They talk a bit, comment on the food, then make lists of the best burgers they had to this day, which of course leds a talk about pie, and that somehow links them to debating if cheesecake is pie or not.

For such a polite and calm dude, Castiel has a sarcasm as dry as the Sahara and he delivers it with the same tone he uses to say the sky is blue. Dean has to take a second to register and understand it, and he doesn't doubt most of it go right over his head. The bits he catches, though, have him laughing.

And it’s good to laugh a bit-- it feels like ages since the last time, even if couldn’t be more than two days. It's calming and at the same time boosting and when the food comes he actually feels hungry, like savouring the burger and not shoving it down for the sake of having energy later.

Dean notices also that Castiel doesn’t seem to do things by halves-- he pours his attention and care like they’re on sale. He does it naturally, not forcefully, but it’s impossible not to notice. When he puts his focus on something he puts all of it, and Dean discovers that having his pure undivided attention makes a hot flush crawl up his neck. It’s disconcerting and can be downright unnerving how flustered Castiel’s gaze makes him feel.

Somehow along the eating and the small talk about their life, Castiel managed to get the sum of Dean’s family history out of his mouth without much effort. Dean sees himself talking about his mother's death, how his father went batshit crazy, how working in secret service is like the family business-- and he’s not sure how that happened. The guy has these crazy intense eyes that maybe hypnotized him or something.

Dean thought Michael had a natural thousand watt stare, but truth is he has nothing on Castiel and how he pins you with his eyes. And it’s not intimidating though it does make Dean nervous-- it’s just because he doesn’t want to look dumb and awkward and that’s the perfect recipe for looking dumb and awkward.

It feels so good though, just sitting there, talking, eating something godo and having a breathe. It's like taking a leap in a cool pool in a hot summer day. By the time they finish and are ready to go back, Dean is lighter, and his smile doesn’t feel fake.

  
  


 

 

They got an early lunch so when they walk the half block back to HQ it’s actually lunchtime for the rest of the people. It doesn’t really look like. There’s not much difference and as soon as Castiel puts his foot on the busy lobby there’s four people asking for his attention. Dean doesn’t protest, just gives Castiel a little wave of goodbye when he says he has to go, sounding rueful.

“Call me if you need anything,” Castiel says before disappearing behind the lift's doors, and then Dean remembers his phone is still dead to the world.  

Dean looks around and leaves a defeated sigh. He can’t really remember which way Sam's room is, and damn he should’ve asked before Castiel had gone. It’s weird that the layout of the building doesn’t stray much from the one where he works, but here he feels so out of place, like he’s a kid trying to fit the circle in the square shaped space. He's just lost, maybe overwhelmed. He doesn’t want to ask for help, though, because he doesn’t want to bother when everybody seems so busy and it’s his own fault he can’t remember the right way.

That leaves him wandering around, and he gets one or two stinky eyes, but he ignores it and at some point finds a flow of some people wearing lab coats. They’re carrying coffee cups and discussing something that Dean doesn’t strain himself to hear. It doesn’t really matter-- he follows them and three floors up and he’s in the medical wing.

Sam is still asleep when Dean gets in his room, so he just plugs his phone on the charger he hunts down in his backpack, and sprawls in the chair beside the bed. It seems that all the chairs in the building are decent, at least. It’s enough to take a little nap.

  
  
  


 

When Dean opens his eyes Sam is still not awake and there’s a crick in his neck he really didn’t need. He stretches and grumbles and sighs, but gets up to grab his phone. Everything is sore in a way that feels like he’s been asleep for days but it has barely been fifty minutes. There’s a foul taste in his mouth anyway, so he grabs some gum on his pack and sits down again.

He feels tired, heavy, but he doubts he could nap again, so he just stays put. Sam looks peaceful, chest rising and dipping slowly, like he’s in a deep sleep. Maybe he should ask if it’s time for Sam to eat or something, because the last time he ate was back in the hospital, but at the same time he doesn’t want to disturb him.

Just as he’s thinking it, a nurse comes in and he’s polite to say that, yes, food has to be requested and, no, he’s just giving Sam another dose of painkillers, there’s nothing wrong going on. Dean thanks him and asks for Sam’s lunch, so it can be here once Sam wakes up.

  
  


 

 

It’s past two in the afternoon when Sam begins to stir. He’s groggy and grumpy and grunts a lot, but he eats with no trouble. Dean has his stomach in knots thinking about asking what happened, but he bites the bullet and does it.

Turns out Sam can’t tell much. It’s part because of the concussion, Dean knows, but he doesn’t doubt the meds have some to do with Sam’s confusion too, if not making him dazed just making him altogether too fuzzy to do much but rest.

But one thing Sam is sure of is that he never reached the intel. He barely entered the guy’s office before he was attacked. Sam remembers too waking up in the plane and he tried to grab the guy piloting the thing but he can’t recall much of it. That’s all Dean needs to know to get Michael off their back.

  


 

 

Turns out he doesn’t need to worry about that anymore.

He's just updating Charlie on Sam's news via quick texts when there's a soft knock on the door. Dean opens it, and there's Castiel with Masters on his heels.

“Uhm. Hi,” Dean fumbles, getting back so they can enter. He's instantly worried, but tries to hide it.

“Dean,” Castiel says, looking a bit sorry,  “I trust Sam is resting well?”

“Yeah, he is,” Dean looks at the sleeping form of his brother and then back at Castiel, “Something wrong?”

“I’ll stay here, Clarence,” Masters says, walking to occupy the chair Dean was sitting, as if it’s her righteous place, “Go have your chat.”

“Thank you, Meg." Castiel nods, "Dean, if you may--” and he trails off, gesturing the way out in silent question. Dean just nods, knowing that asking things will just delay the answers he wants further.

He follows Castiel’s silent pace out of the room and to the elevator, then through the maze of corridors and doors. They’re back at Castiel’s office in minutes and, as soon as the door closes, the man leaves a little sigh.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to talk without any testimonies,” Castiel says, and walks to his table in measured steps. He’s frowning, a tenseness bold on his shoulders, and in all the time they talked it’s the first time Castiel looks unbearably tired. “It’s not that I don’t trust my colleagues, it’s,” he licks his lips, sighs a tiny thing again, “We received concerning news this evening and I’d rather not spread it.”

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, can’t keep the concern out of his voice. Castiel looks blurred on the edges and it’s quite a sad sight for someone Dean got used for thinking as so intense. He walks to stand right in front of Castiel, table between them, and he wants to reach but he doesn’t.

“Blake woke up,” he says, and Dean doesn't understand how’s that bad news, until Castiel exhales and goes on, “She said Walker shot her.”

Dean freezes. “What?”

“Apparently Walker is a mole. And he attacked Blake, compromised Sam’s position and, well. We’re not sure yet, but he was probably in the plane--” the more Castiel talks, ice spreads further in Dean’s body and he feels himself locking in anger.

“That _son of a bitch_ -”

At that Castiel stops talking, a tired smile gracing the curve of his lips. “That would be accurate, yes.”

Dean fumes, biting town his knuckles and taking a deep breath. His thoughts are rushing, crashing a thousand miles per second, and he puts a hand on the table to steady himself. “So he told them to come after Sam, then?” And he hates how his voice cracks at the end, how his body betrays him and he’s so fucking weak.

“Probably,” Castiel offers, nodding and looking contrite. “But we have some better news. After they took Sam and left Blake for dead, she managed to get the intel.”

“How in the _hell_ she did that?”

“She said she used a pen drive.” Castiel says, like that’s the defining part of Blake bleeding out and still outsmarting a bunch of bad goons. “Walker is still on the run, though. And whoever helped him too. We're hoping to know that when the two men in custody start talking.”

“So what’s the plan?” Dean asks, and Castiel looks up in surprise, as if he thought Dean would hear all of that and then he’d want to be left out of it. As if he didn’t brought Dean here with something he wants Dean to do in mind.

“I can’t ask that of you,” Castiel says, voice softening a tone, “in any case, I’m not your commander and Michael says you’re technically on temporary leave to care for your brother.”

“And why did you tell me all that if you didn’t want me to do something?”

Castiel frowns at that, blinking and looking a little lost, and the shift is so open and fast Dean knows he managed to misunderstand the man's intentions.

“I just thought you’d want to know.” He says, like it’s simple. Dean doesn't know what to answer to that. The fight drains out of him in a breath, and as much as he’s still angry, honestly he feels like an asshole, being so rude when Castiel was just trying to be helpful.

“But what if I want to?” he asks, gentler, “Look, I know I’m not much use in a fight, but I still can help.”

“I know you could,” Castiel answers, “I’m not doubting that, Dean. I just,” and he cuts himself, hand brushing the stubble that got darker since the last time Dean remembers. There’s a pause that stretches and Dean watches him, the little dip between his eyes and the crinkles on its corners, the focus lost over the papers scaterred at the table. “Okay, yes.” Castiel says after the lapse and nods, just once. He then looks straight at Dean’s eyes and it’s like a thrum runs under his skin. Castiel has got back some of the sharpness and intensity and Dean feels strangely glad to watch it. “Let’s get to work, then.”

 

 

 

 

The sun had already went down for at least a couple of hours when the meeting finally ends, and Dean's head is heavy, like his brain is too full and slow to process it all. He closes his eyes and sprawls on the chair for a moment, hearing the rustle of the agents getting up and leaving, trying to cool down a little.

He’s fucking exhausted. It’s been more than 28 hours since he last saw a bed and the quick nap he had in Sam’s room didn’t help even a bit-- he suspects no nap while sitting will help if he wants to be in his top game for tomorrow.

When Dean opens his eyes again, only Castiel is there, collecting his pen, notepad resting on the crook of his arm. Considering Dean doesn’t even work here for real, he really should vacate the room and leave the guy to do whatever he needs to do right now. He closes his laptop lid and carefully puts it inside his backpack alongside the papers he had scribbled in, zipping them up.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean gets up, pulling his chair in place, “Do you know a cheap hotel nearby or something?”

Castiel blinks a couple of times and his mouth opens but he doesn’t answer. Dean cocks his head to the side, half curious and half worried. For a moment he thinks he overstepped with the nickname, but he saw other people calling Castiel that during the day. Maybe it's a thing for closer friends only. “What?” Dean asks.

“I have a place.” Castiel blurts and winces. Dean's eyebrows go high. Clearing his throat, Castiel looks down at the table, and inhales slowly. “I’m-- I mean,” Castiel licks his lips, frowning at the wood like he’s seeing a really hard problem he doesn’t know how to solve, “The hotels nearby aren’t exactly cheap, and I presume you’d have to pay with your own money. There’s also the trouble of transportation and there’s food too,” he says and rubs at a place on the table, even if it looks spotless. “ I have a big couch.” He adds, almost as an afterthought.  

Castiel looks so utterly awkward and disconcerted, and it’s a little bit funny, sure, to see him lose his composure with something so silly, but it’s mostly endearing. Dean presses his lips against teeth to hide a smile, and it’s lucky Castiel isn't looking to notice it-- he thinks the guy wouldn’t appreciate being thought as cute in a moment like this. “You offering?” He asks, just to make sure.

“Yes,” and Castiel finally looks up, big ocean eyes blinking owlishly at Dean, “Yes, I am.”  

Even if it’s not the first time Dean would have to get by with uber, hotel, and washing his underwear on the bathroom sink, it’s nice to have an option-- it’s even nicer that Castiel would go to this trouble for him, and it hits him how thoughtful Castiel is being and have been since they met. Dean doesn’t know if he’s like that with everybody, even if he witnessed how attentive and careful he is most of the time, but he can’t help but preen a little under the attention. He feels suddenly a bit shy, undeserving, and he doesn’t even ask if Castiel is sure, just in case he says no.

“That’d be nice,” Dean says, and smiles, even as he pretends to check that everything is inside his backpack.

“Good,” Castiel sounds warm, as if he really thinks it’s good Dean is coming with him, and Dean feels his cheeks heating up. “We can go now, if you want. I’ve been here since yesterday, I can get home earlier.”    

“It just- I want to check on Sam before we go, if it’s not a problem?” he asks, shouldering his things.

“Of course not,” Castiel says, gentle, “I can wait.”

  


 

 

 

After a stop in a drive thru where they acquire dinner and Dean protests over the price of chinese, the ride to Castiel’s place is calm. There’s a bit of traffic, but if LA is anything like DC, it doesn’t even come close to the rush hour.

The building Castiel navigates his car into is at the end of a street and Dean can’t really say anything about it. except it’s really really tall. The travel through the lift and hall to the tenth floor tells him it’s one of those moderns places, with polished glasses and shiny chrome, walls with paintings he doesn't understand.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Castiel says, as soon as he opens his apartment’s door, bags of food crinkling on his hand.

"Thanks," says Dean, and he takes his shoes off, following Castiel’s lead, but pulling out his socks too. They’re dirty and already feeling gross against his feet. He stucks them inside his boots, a little embarrassed. When he steps in the living room and gives his firts look around, he's impressed.

Castiel’s apartment is very nice and lived in. If Dean was to take the last hours as an example of Castiel’s usual routine, he’d say the guy lived in an impersonal apartment, perfectly tidy and bare, maybe decorated right out of a magazine but without any personal touch. Well, he’d be wrong.

The high ceiling and sparse walls give the impression of a wide open space, and the first thing Dean notices is that the east wall facing the street is just a big glass window with thick off-white curtains draped aside, letting the light and colors in. There’s no great view, like the beach or something, but Dean bets it must be beautiful to watch the sunrise with a cup of coffee. There's another wall that catches his attention that's just an enormous bookcase, filled with various titles and souvenirs. It's pretty great and Dean stares at it for a while, taking it in. He counts at least five small pottery cats and a really cool miniature of a samurai sword.

As promised, the couch is spacious, enough to fit Dean stretched, and just by looking he can tell how soft it is.

“That’s a really cool place,” he says, still taking details. It seems that the more he looks, more things he finds. The floor tiles are of a dark kind of wood, and only the space with a carpet rolled overis around the couch and coffee table, so Dean’s steps make a quiet tap-tap sound when he moves to the bookcases, curious about what Castiel likes to read.

“Thank you,” Dean isn’t wrong about the hint of satisfaction in Castiel’s voice, “It took me some time to find the things to make it a home, but it was worth it.”

“Yeah, I get it, I-- Oh, hey,” Dean pass his fingers over the volumes of Sandman HQs, the hard covers glinting in the low light. “You got them all? Wow.” Dean asks, not ashamed of how awestruck he sounds. Some of those he doesn’t have. He turns to see Castiel smiling at him, and the man just shrugs, like he’s the cool side of the pillow.

“You can borrow them if you want.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “I’m so jealous right now, just give me my food.”

  
  
  


 

It’s as dark as it can be in a big city, with buttery lights coming through the window and the passing cars moving shadows on the walls and ceiling. Castiel had offered to close the curtains, saying in the morning the sun would be right over Dean, but Dean said it was fine. He likes not being completely in the dark.

For how much tired he feels, sleep doesn't want to come. His body is mostly relaxed from the warm shower, the couch is comfortable, and the pjs he borrowed from Castiel are soft and smell very good, but he can’t seem to turn off his mind. He’s always a pile of nerves before every mission and he supposes tomorrow can be seen as one, even if his job is different from the usual. He just hopes everything goes okay, that they can get Walker, whenever he’s hiding.

The plan is solid, but in Dean’s experience it’s never that easy.

He plays the night in his head, wanting back how good he felt when Castiel was at his side, watching a random episode of The Office and talking between bites of dinner. He replays the soft goodnight and the small smile Castiel gave him right before retreating to his room. He doesn't feel when he falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

The morning comes as a surprise. The scent of fresh coffee brewing and toasting bread bring Dean out of his slumber and he sighs, opening his eyes to the soft sunlight. The smell is good enough his stomach is grumbling in seconds, but Dean doesn’t hurry to get up. He does it slowly, hazy. He feels so rested, but at the same time lazy as hell. Sitting, Dean stretches his arms up and grumbles, closing his eyes for a moment.

Yeah, a good night of sleep does him wonders.

“I hoped coffee would lure you out of sleep,” Castiel says, voice deeper than usual. Dean turns to look at him, and he's slouched against the kitchen’s entrance, wearing a half buttoned white shirt, black slacks and bare feet. He looks beautiful, a little rumpled, and he smiles at Dean behind his red mug.

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little out of breath, hoping he doesn’t look as much awestruck as he feels, “Coffee always does the trick.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhh, I was so sure I had finished, but the chapter kept growing and growing and then I decided to split it up in two. Next coming up soon! Thanks y'all for the kuddos and comments, they make me very happy!


End file.
